End Game
by Cairnsy
Summary: The death of a family member leads to heartache, self-loathing and the fear of surviving in a previously shunned world alone. But can it lead to love and acceptance as well? Oliver/Percy slash.


Author's note: We now return you to the much absent of late Oliver/Percy channel. Same time, different beat. 

Continuity note: This takes place in the same universe/is the sequel to as 'Playing The Game'. If you can't be bothered with reading that story first, then you are not going to understand whole chunks of this story ^_^ [Playing The Game][1] is only a short read, and it is suggested heavily that you read it first, by going to the link above or this one [here][1]. Big thanks again to my fabulous beta, WeasleyTwin2, and to A'jes', for the wonderful support she gave me over my concern about my ability to write something of this length that was a single story as opposed to a chaptered fanfic. Big hugs to both of you =) 

**End Game.**

There was something rather ironic about it all. A simple letter, no more than a few paragraphs long. No fan fare, no fancy text. No going out with a bang. His father would be disappointed. 

Or, more aptly, would have been. So the old man was dead. Nothing glorious, as his father had always dreamed, just a rather boring and normal heart attack. Even in death he hadn't made the splash he'd wanted to during his living years. Idly, Oliver wondered if there would be the odd paragraph or two dedicated to him in the Prophet tomorrow. Jason Wood had after all been a superstar once, even if it had been only for a year. It was the type of thing those damn reporters loved: a hero fallen from grace, the tragic life that had followed that had driven the once talented Quidditch player to an early grave. Perhaps they would say that Jason Wood had died of a broken heart, still grieving for a son that had been long lost in the war against Voldemort. Maybe they would even be able to stretch it into a tale of an old non-existent Quidditch injury from his days of stardom. The fact the man had been twenty years past his prime and had been a bastard all his life would of course have no influence on their sob story. 

Oliver would play their game, however. He always did. The dutiful son mourning his much loved father, perhaps dedicating the odd match or two to him. The fools would solemnly comment on how he was clad in black, ignoring the obvious - black was the colour of Hogwarts school uniform. 

Perhaps more than a few paragraphs, then. There had been so few important deaths in the last few years, this would give the hounds something to chew on for a while. Anything for a decent story. Journalism had come a long way. 

"Oliver, are you all right?" 

Oh wonderful. Just what he needed. Percy had never learned the finer points of subtlety, but he'd always known to avoid him in times such as this. 'This?'. Just exactly was 'this'? Grief? Joy? Despair? 

Emptiness. That described it fairly well. Once, he had thought that the shell that he pretended to inhibit couldn't have been any more hollow. Now the casting that held up the mould had collapsed inward, leaving nothing more than an indistinguishable mess behind. 

"It's nothing important, Percy." He hid his sigh as he heard Percy approach him from behind, ignoring the obvious 'Get lost!' which had been blatant enough in his voice for even Percy to pick up on. Or, perhaps Percy had heard something different there, an underlying plea that Oliver himself wasn't sure he had uttered. There were times when he felt Percy was more intune to him than even himself. 

At others, Percy knew a non-existent stranger. A stranger who wore his face, and knew his actions better than his own reflection. But a stranger still. A stranger who had emotions and cares, who loved more than Quidditch, knew more than simply the mechanics of breathing. But then, perhaps Percy knew that that particular aspect of him was a stranger as well. 7 years. Percy knew him better than anyone else, even his own father. 

Not that that was difficult, he thought bitterly. If it didn't involve a broomstick, his father had no interest at all in anything. 

A light hand on his shoulder alerted him of Percy's presence at his side. With a casualness which was as stiff as that of a mannequin, he thrust the letter at his roommate, not bothering to glance over at him. For someone who excelled at hiding his feelings and emotions from the world, Percy could be amazingly transparent at times. It was rather ironic that Percy could express concern for a mere friend more openly than for his own siblings. But then, Oliver had never rejected Percy's occasional affection, often even craving it. Percy may come across as puritan pure to many, but Oliver had always seen a sense of sensuality in the other boy's movements. 

That said, he was known to be rather biased on this particular subject. Or, not known, as it was. Not even Percy, who had over the years learned him so well, knew of his little private obsession. And would never know. That wasn't how one went around playing the game, exposing oneself to such a weakness. And love, father had always taught him, was most definitely one of those. 

Awkward arms wrapped themselves around him, gangly in their uncertainty and brief in their strangely comforting appearance. 

"I'm sorry, Oliver," Percy quietly said, stepping away slightly from him after the quick hug. He almost laughed, seeing the sorrow laced in those brown eyes. How was it that Percy could feel compassion for a man he had never known, yet he himself couldn't muster up anything stronger than mild surprise? 

"Why? He was hardly a man worthy of your sympathies," he replied. There was no bitterness or hatred in his voice, he'd long trained himself to keep such emotions from seeping into his words. 

"I suppose not," Percy replied stiffly, straightening his glasses. Uncertainty. One of Percy's few quirks that gave away what he was feeling instantly was the way he would fiddle with his glasses. "But doesn't that mean you'll have to spend some time with those horrid relations of yours?" 

He laughed, and it was fuelled by both hysteria and surprise. Damn Percy for trying to trivialise this. Damn him for knowing that was exactly what he wanted. It wasn't often Percy even attempted something resembling a joke, but the small smile on Percy's face was testament of the pleasure he had gotten out of managing to pull one off. 

Ah, the relatives. He'd barely known them, never cared to. They weren't involved with Quidditch, after all - Father had seen no reason for much interaction with them. If there was one thing he could thank Father for, it was that. The few times they had played family had been more forced than a play put on by a bunch of overly eager but pathetically untalented teenagers. They'd known their roles, and played them. Played the time worn game, empty shells the lot of them. 

"The funeral is Sunday, isn't it?" 

"It said so in the letter, Percy." Still uncomfortable. Percy was likely unused to dealing with death, even more so with someone who didn't have the natural reaction to such an event. Would Percy have preferred it if he broke down into tears, mourned a man he had never really known? Neither of them had ever been ones for emotional outbursts, although they had occasionally happened. There were times when even the most talented actors forgot their lines, or more aptly, forgot why they followed the script in the first place. 

"I never loved him." It terrified him to say that out loud. Not because he had any allusions about his feelings for his father, there was very little there to love, and he had never been one to assign emotion to someone simply because of their relevance or position in his life. No, the fear came from letting Percy see that side of him. Everyone loved their parents, didn't they? Was admitting that he held no love for the deceased man yet another example of how distant he had come from being something that even resembled normality? Or was simply *wanting* to love his father enough? 

"I'm sure he must have had some redeeming qualities," Percy offered lamely, yet not even he seemed to believe the words. "Maybe, maybe he just never let you see them." 

"And why would he do that?" One could hardly grasp at straws when there was none there to grab in the first place. "Why would anyone hide emotions if they had them in the first place?" He glared, suddenly. Percy was playing his own game here, and he wasn't sure quite what the other boy was up to. Large brown eyes peered over the rim of glasses that had always been slightly too large, examining him, waiting for him to draw the connection. 

"Perhaps your father was simply too scared to let emotions that made him fallible rise to the surface, Oliver. Just because you repress emotions, doesn't mean they don't exist." 

"And you would be the expert on that, wouldn't you Percy?" The cheap shot obviously stung, but the only telling sign was the slight blush that graced the tips of Percy's ears. Lashing out felt good, it meant not having to deal with the falseness that were Percy's words. "According to your brothers, you don't repress anything, you're just simply incapable of feeling at all." 

Percy stilled, betrayal lingering in those eyes, yet none of the hurt reflecting elsewhere. For a moment he felt guilt - while they had rarely turned to each other, they had never turned *on* each other. They understood the other too well for that. 

"This coming from someone who is too scared to live at all beyond some stupid game," Percy retorted stiffly, a glare fixed firmly on the pale face. "You're so scared of actually living in the real world, that you pretend you are immune to it - but you're not, Oliver. You're just as fallible and human as the rest of us." With those words, the red head turned on his heels and stormed from their room. 

That prat. He had no idea what he was going on about. Percy was the last person to be lecturing on emotions. Just because Percy breathed hidden emotions and feelings that most people never got to see, didn't mean that Oliver was the same. There was no basis for other emotions, no outlet or requirement. He'd been taught long ago that complications were the only result for such things. 

Taught by his father; the soulless teaching the soulless. Percy wanted him to believe that there were emotions there, after all. That they had remained hidden, not only within his father but himself as well, for 17 years. Beautiful Percy, who still looked for the best in everyone, even though he couldn't see it in himself. Percy, who couldn't be more wrong. 

He had to be. 

***** 

There were times when he had to doubt the sanity of his roommate. The twins were trying their best to stay out of his war path, and even the more 'emotional' members of his team hadn't said a word about the extra practices he had forced upon them. Oh, he didn't miss the quiet looks they passed each other while he was supposingly 'otherwise occupied'. Nor did he not catch the sympathetic smiles that spoke of false understanding. No, they may have no idea what he was going through, but they were intelligent enough to leave him alone with his 'mourning'. 

It was a virtue Percy was seriously lacking in. 

It had been 3 days since he had learned of his fathers death, and he and Percy had exchanged words. Rather perversely, it was what had gone between himself and Percy that effected him more, even if the other boy was acting stubbornly like everything was normal. As normal as Percy could be, anyway. But even after the harsh words that he knew cut deep into the insecure mass that made up Percy, there was still a warm mug of herbal tea waiting for him when he awoke for his morning Quidditch practice, and Percy still sat beside him in their shared classes. 

If the boy was more quiet than usual, then Oliver was most likely the only one who had noticed. 

And now, Percy was standing in front of him, a small battered and worn suitcase that was flaking artificial leather firmly in his hands. The determination on the pale face wavered slightly when cold eyes glared back at him, but the voice that spoke up held no such quiver. 

"The letter said you could bring a friend. I thought you might want someone there, in support." Now the voice faltered, and eyes that had steadily held his own gaze now dropped slightly. 

Percy wanted to go with him to his father's funeral. Percy, who he had hurt, and whose final words only days ago had refused to leave his mind. Percy, who cared. Percy wasn't supposed to care - that wasn't how you played the game, damn it! 

Oliver wanted to kiss him. Wrap his arms tightly around the other boy, and not let go of this strange warmth Percy seemed to breathe. But that was against the rules, and even if it hadn't been, the emotion was one that had to be returned first ... 

_"Just because you repress emotions, doesn't mean they don't exist."_

"It isn't exactly going to be a great time," he spoke up, and it took a moment for the wry grin on Percy's face to sink on. "But then, I suppose most funerals aren't." Not that he had gone to many. Just the one. 

"It would mean spending the weekend with my Grandparents," he then warned, wonderingly idly if he was attempting to scare Percy off. The grimly determined nod the other boy responded with almost made him laugh. Percy seemed to expect his family to be a battlefield, when it more aptly could be described as a morgue. 

Father wasn't the only one dead. The man just had a gravestone to prove it. 

"They're really quite horrid pe-" 

"Oliver, I get it," Percy responded, the exasperation evident in his voice. "But I'm not going for those relatives of yours, but you. They could all be a mixture of Snape, Quirrel, the twins - even He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself, and I wouldn't give a rot." 

There was a time when he would have turned down Percy's offer in an instant. Now, he had neither the will or desire to. 

"I'm sitting next to the window." 

"Rubbish. You'll block the view with those shoulders of yours." 

***** 

As it turned out, neither had been lucky enough to nab the window seat. An overly curious Percy had decided that this would be the perfect opportunity to try one of those muggle trains, an interest that seemed to run through Percy's blood almost as thickly as that of his Ministry worker father. He'd tried to convince Percy that London subway trains were *not* how one went around experiencing an enjoyable muggle train ride, but for 7 years Percy had watched the weird contraptions flow in and out of the shared Muggle/Wizard station, before catching his own, steam engine driven train to Hogwarts. Warnings of general unhygienic standards, pushing crowds and plastic seats that creaked and groaned under the barest weight seemed to have little effect on Percy, in fact, only served to excite him more. 

That excitement was the only thing that made the rush hour journey to the Mersyside even partly bearable. That, and the iverable fact that, in the crush of bodies that were pressed together compactly on the train itself, Percy had been practically moulded to his body. 

Not so bad, really. 

By the time the train reached its destination, the darkness of a winter afternoon had already settled in, and street lamps were beginning to glow softly. The salty tang of the Mersy river was almost over poweringly dominant, and the sound of waves lapping on the blind, pebbled shore was almost eerie. The docks were still busy, they wouldn't shut down for many more hours. There were still ferries that needed to come across, factories whose workers had new shifts to be worked. 

Liverpool. Home. 

"We have to walk the rest of the way." The streets narrowed into the colonnade of brick he was so familiar with, the claustrophobic rows of the old 'two up, two down.' They weren't bad houses, really, especially if they housed simply an old couple. But there had been times when it was 6 or 7 people these things were home to, too many children cramped into all that the dock working parents could earn. 

Percy's constant barrage of questions had slowly trailed off the further they had moved from the open docks and into the residential areas. The inquisitive look that had held such interest over things as simple as cars or clothing, had now disappeared, taken over by a closed look that was more well known in the Hogwarts corridors. 

"One of our safe houses was like one of these." 

It was said off handedly, as though merely a piece of information that had come to mind. Yet, it was a period of his life that Percy never spoke of, even in passing comment. 

"Here, in Liverpool?" Strange, to hide one of the most hunted after Wizard families in the middle of a city where the Muggle population was overly dominant. Then again, maybe there was a twisted intelligence to it. Percy simply shrugged in response, eyes straight ahead. 

"No idea. In the two months we were there, I was never allowed outside. The house could have been beside the Vienna for all I know." 

Two months. Oliver had never been able to spend more than a couple of hours at a time within the confinements of Hogwarts, always needed that wonderful freedom the open sky offered so freely. Or didn't. There were times he wondered if the toll the sky demanded overrode the freedom it promised. But as a 5 year old, there could have been no worse torment. 

"You never talk about that, the time your family was in hiding." Cautious, inviting. 

"You never talk about your mother." 

He didn't bother to answer. Couldn't answer. Something that closely resembled his heart had lodged itself firmly in his throat. Too right he never talked about his mother. Weak, pathetically fragile mother. As Father had always said. Discussion about _her_ was strictly out of bounds. 

Percy was supposingly out of bounds as well. Yet, no protest came when a hesitant hand rested briefly in silent support for a moment on his arm, before being withdrawn quickly. Too quickly. Percy wanting to offer comfort, while not having the ability to let such a favour be returned. The idiot seemed to always be looking out for his well being these days. 

He smiled anyway, even though he knew he really shouldn't have. It had only been a brief touch, after all. A mere touch. And a bloody effective one at that. Glancing over at Percy, his smile was rewarded with an almost ... shy? one in return from the other boy, who dipped his head slightly, strands of rich red hair cascading over rimmed eyes, stealing them away from his curious gaze. 

If he didn't know Percy better, he'd think the other boy was practically blushing. It was more likely an effect of the street lamps however, which were beginning to fade under the lowering fog. Liverpoolian evenings were not the most pleasant time to be out, but as luck would have it, they had practically reached his Grandparents house. 

Whether that was good luck or bad luck, he'd yet to decide. 

"This is it," he finally said, stopping in front of what must have appeared to be a random house to Percy. It certainly was no different in appearance to the houses that flanked it, and lacked that brief flare of originality that some of the houses had managed to somehow entwine into the brick facade and identical styles. 

He'd barely knocked on the door when it was flung open, and he came face to face with a man he hadn't seen in at least 4 or so years. 

"Grand Pa. You look good." And Marshall Wood did. The years had treated the man well, if one was to examine the man purely on a physical level. A powerful physique that had always been a Wood family trait still lingered on the ageing body, and muscles that would have withered away on most men his age were still powerfully built, testament of the obvious fitness regime that the man kept up. The shock of silver hair and the wrinkles that adorned the fairly pale face were the only evidence that time was rotating around the man at all. 

"Oliver, come in." A small smile. Now *that* was a shock. Grand Pa had always been a reserved man, sharing much of his cold demeanour with his son. Cold was perhaps not quite the right word, distant seemed more appropriate, Oliver reflected as he did as Grand Pa said, Percy following him in. 

"You must be one of Oliver's friends, I'm Marshall Wood," Grand Pa spoke up immediately to Percy the moment they had reached the lounge. Hand outstretched in a gesture of welcome, Percy shook it quickly, before reclaiming his hand to straighten his glasses. 

"Please to meet you Sir, I'm Percy Weasley," Percy replied stiffly, painfully formal. Grand Pa turned from Percy and shot Oliver a glance that could have held hidden humour. 

"Please, call me Marshall." 

Grand Pa looked uncomfortable in this new role of courtesy, yet it seemed to be almost genuine, not merely a forced effort to be polite in front of a guest. Conversation was convoluted and forced, as they settled themselves down comfortably in the overly padded chairs. But convoluted and forced was far superior and preferred to the long silences that had been powered by tension that always seemed to hang over the visits he had made to the house with his father in the past. 

When 6pm came around, so did Grand Ma, a bundle of fish and chips tightly in her grasp. She apologised for not managing to get away from work earlier, and the rather cheap dinner that she had picked up on the way home. She blustered around, never quite meeting his eyes, or contributing much to any conversation that occasionally came up around mouthfuls of chips. It was with relief - and a fair amount of confusion, that Oliver finally managed to excuse both himself and Percy, siting the long trip from Hogwarts. They quickly settled into the rather small room that had been set up for them, the two beds pushed practically together in the limited amount of room available. 

Not that he saw that as a problem, of course. 

"They're not as bad as I thought they would be, rather stoic and stiff, but not as terrible as they could have been." Percy eventually spoke up, once they had settled into their beds for the evening. Both *were* tired after the journey. 

"The last time Dad and I visited them was four years ago. I can't remember a time when Dad ever got along with Grand Pa or Ma. They've always been completely hostile to each other." 

"Four years was a long time ago. You were still a kid then," Percy managed to get out, before yawning loudly. Oliver didn't have the heart to tell Percy that he doubted he'd ever been a kid, although he suspected that Percy knew that was what he was thinking. 

"They're making an effort, which was enough of a surprise," he instead spoke aloud. And it had been. He'd been expecting coldness, a rejection that was falsely hid under the demand of 'family support'. The expected reply from Percy never came, and Oliver turned on his side, facing the other boy. 

Sound asleep. Already. 

He smiled. A sleeping Percy meant he could engage in one of his favourite pastimes - Percy watching. Oliver couldn't recall the first time he'd found himself watching Percy as he slept, but it had become a rather enjoyable - if not masochistic, habit of his. The soft glow from the lamp in the corner of the room had sent shadows dancing over the relaxed face, highlighting the delicate cheekbones and playing gently in the muted hair, no longer a fiery red, but a tame auburn. 

How was it that no-one had corrupted Percy long ago? God knows, he would have done years ago if it hadn't been for ... 

For what? His career? His father? Or was it fear that Percy would corrupt him in return? Would make him that much more human, teach him emotions he had never had? 

_"Just because you repress emotions, doesn't mean they don't exist."_

This was bloody confusing. Confusion had never been something he'd ever dwelled in - there was nothing confusing about Quidditch, and Quidditch was what had only ever mattered, all he had ever cared about. 

Percy was showing that to be nothing more than a glaring lie - *was* what made it a lie. And once one truth escaped, it was hard to keep the others locked firmly away. 

The game, which was supposed to be all about black and whites, had suddenly become very grey. 

***** 

It had been after breakfast the next morning when Percy had proven himself to be clinically insane. Grand Pa had been stiffly running through the organisation of the funeral that was to take place the next day, and Percy, quickly losing interest, had let his gaze wander out of the kitchen window. 

"Is that ... football?" Percy stumbled slightly over the word, although anticipation seemed to gleam in his eyes. Dear lord. Percy had discovered another 'muggle' activity. 

"Yes, it is," Grand Pa answered, slightly confused. Of course he was. How many English wizards *didn't* know about football? Most wizards were, after all, part of muggle communities - Hogsmeade was the only actual all wizard settlement. It would have been ludicrous for wizards not to know enough to at least partially blend in. 

Percy and his Weasley were, of course, one of those exceptions. 

"My family live in the countryside," Percy explained, eyes still trailed on the group of boys who were playing an impromptu game on the street outside. "We've never really had any interaction with the muggle world, there was just really no need ..." Percy drifted off. 

"But surely, you must have been rather curious, with a father like yours I think it would be rather natural to want to explore the muggle world a bit." It was said with a smile that was surprisingly gentle, but Percy was looking downright miserable. 

"There was never time, I always had other things to do. Everything else was just more important, concentrating on getting in the Ministry takes up a lot of my time - not that I mind. Of course." If this was Percy trying to sound convincing, then he was going to be a flop as a politician. A flop at being something he had sacrificed everything to achieve, even a deeply inbred curiosity that was deemed too trivial to divert attention to. 

Too similar. Far too damn similar. 

"Why don't you and Oliver go out and watch them? I'm sure the boys wouldn't mind an audience, in fact, I'm sure they'll thrive under it." Wry smile. Seemed like young teens were the same as always, natural show-offs. Percy's eyes lit up for a moment, then clouded over with false indifference. 

"It is more important that we go over these details," Percy replied, eyes pulled away from the game outside to the parchment that laid scattered on the kitchen table. "This is why we are here, after all." The wane smile was unconvincing, especially after the brightness that had lurked there only moments before. 

Going over plans Grand Pa had made for dear old dad's funeral, or make Percy happy? It had never really been even close to debatable. 

"Grand Pa has everything organised, lets go watch." Percy glanced at him, his surprise only barely noticeable. 

"Really, Oliver - I think it would be better if we stayed here." 

"You can stay here, I'm going out to watch." With that, Oliver rose from his seat, slipping gracefully into the jacket that had been hanging on the back of the chair. He didn't bother turning around to see if Percy was following, and couldn't contain the small grin that broke onto his face when, after the initial moment of shocked silence, the sound of padded footsteps followed after him. 

"That wasn't very polite," Percy said reproving as they sat down on the steps outside. The lecture that normally would have followed never came, however, and Percy instead asked for explanations of the game being played before them. 

This, this was nice. Being in the company of Percy beneath the insipid morning haze, relaxing as though they were just two average English boys. No worries, no pressures. Just a sense of normality. 

When one of the boys scored a goal - a makeshift area that was created by two bags placed in the middle of the road to represent the goal posts, Percy broke into applause, clapping appreciatively. The smile turned quickly into a frown before disappearing completely under an emotionless mask as the boys grabbed their bags and looked to be heading off. 

"You haven't seen David or Smithy, have either of you?" One of them suddenly called out to them, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he did so. Oliver shook his head - he had no idea who the two boys were in the first place. 

"Bloody hell, they were supposed to meet us here nearly 20 minutes ago. We'll have to go down to the park without them." Pausing suddenly, the boy looked both himself and Percy up and down. "Would you fancy a game? We're going down to Liverton Park to play a real round of football - not this damn dangerous street stuff - I was nearly run over today, I tell ya!" 

"Then why were you playing here in the first place?" Percy asked. The boy looked at him incredulously. 

"Because we were waiting for David and Smithy, weren't we? So, you want to come and play?" 

"We'd love to!" Percy replied, before there was any chance for *him* to respond. "Wouldn't we, Oliver?" 

"Percy, you don't even know how to play football." Percy had never even seen the game being played before today either. 

"It ain't difficult," one of the other boys spoke up. "He just needs to kick the ball." 

He was going to say no. Say that this was hardly the time for gallivanting around on some makeshift football field somewhere, especially when there were more important things to do. There always was. But the words stubbornly refused to come, when he caught Percy's gaze. The mask of indifference the other boy wore had cracked slightly, and there was slight hope in those eyes. Hope to interact more with normal people. Hope to play the muggle game he'd become so engrossed with. Hope to have *fun*, something neither of them ever seemed to do anymore. It was almost a foreign concept, doing something merely for fun. No strings attached. 

He was going to say no. But that fatal flaw that was Percy made him instead agree. 

***** 

"Percy Weasley, I have *never* seen a worse kicker of a football in all my life!" 

"Like you are one to talk," Percy retorted, a small smile on his face. "You, the sporting sensation, couldn't keep out more than 1/4th of the goals that came at you! Really, Oliver! I'm shocked!" 

It had been fun. Unbelievably so. Even though Percy was so utterly hopeless that everyone - including Percy, spent the entire time laughing at the red head, even though the skill factor in the game has been near non-existent. Rules were made up on the fly, and then changed the moment it suited, there were none of the harsh codes that were Quidditch, no strict rules and formulas that had to be followed to the tee. 

No, he'd enjoyed the freedom of it. As had, apparently, Percy, who was practically bouncing at his side. 

"And I almost got it into the goal with that last kick," Percy added, and if he didn't know Percy better, Oliver would have thought that a hint of mischief lurked in those brown eyes. 

"Perce, it went over the top of the goal by at least 5 meters!" It hadn't cleared the house *behind* the goal, however. The sound of shattered glass had resulted in all of them dispersing at great speed in random directions, although he'd had to drag a bewildered Percy away from the scene almost by force. Percy hadn't understood why they couldn't go up and simply apologise, and offer to mend the window. Hadn't, that was, until a woman had stuck her head out of said window and hurled a host of expletives at them. Poor Percy had slowly turned red, before letting him finally pull him away from the scene. 

He still held that freckled hand in his own. He wasn't going to bring it up if Percy hadn't noticed. Instead, he revelled in how, although they were nearly the same size height wise, Percy's hand was far smaller than his. The hand wasn't soft, but callused and tough like his own. Too much time with a quill in hand, and not enough vanity to use one of the creams that other diligent students - or Quidditch players for that fact, often used. They were hands that worked, toiled, were as unassuming and dedicated as their owner. 

He was obsessing over a hand. Wonderful. How the mighty had fallen. Rather ironically, he was enjoying the fall. 

The hand was let go off in a casual manner the moment they arrived back at the house, and he found his good mood start to evaporate like a raindrop on the Sahara. The house reminded him of the death and decay, not only of his father, but the world the man had created. He didn't want to deal with the implications of a life without the strict control his father had enforced on him, or what exactly he was supposed to do anymore. 

Life had been so much easier and uncomplicated on that football field. 

Would have *remained* at least partly uncomplicated if, when he had thrown open the door, he hadn't been comforted by the dark glare of his father's sister. 

Aunt Linda. Dear Gods. 

"Where have you been?" 

Nice to see you as well, dear Auntie. 

"We were out practising Quidditch, I'm sure Dad wouldn't want something as trivial as his death getting in the way of my practice routine." The lie came easily to his lips, his face quickly falling into one of indifference. Aunt Linda was as cold and uncompromising as her brother had been, and the tight smile that was her response to his lie was typical. 

"I suppose you were thinking you would stay with me," Aunt Linda spoke up then, with a sniff. "A terrible inconvenience, but I'm sure your father left me with the responsibility of raising you. What I'm supposed to do with a child, lord only knows." 

Love ran deep in this family. Percy remained rigid at his side, disbelief shining in those eyes. Percy's family may be a bunch of prats, but there was a bond between them all that tied them all together. That bond had never existed in the Wood family. 

"Actually Aunt, I was planning on moving into an apartment after the end of Hogwarts this year, what with my Quidditch Scholarship and all." Not to mention that rather hefty sum of money that had previously been his father's assets. Assets that Aunt Linda cared far more about than the boy she was legally responsible for, for the next few months until he turned 18, anyway. 

Assets she would never see. Served the cow right. 

Aunt Linda had always been one of those relatives that fell under the 'avoid even at funerals or weddings' type family member. Stern, unredeemable, she cared for money, her own advancement and precious little else. She'd developed an interest in his sporting career when it started to show the same promise Adrian had - Quidditch players earned top dollars, after all. Several years older than her brother, she'd never had any children, with good reason. No one was that desperate to sleep with the old bag, let alone marry her. But as a result, she'd ceremoniously dubbed him her 'support' for when she was older and not quite so self-reliant. His duties would include looking after her once he was earning a significant amount that in Aunt Linda's eyes would be enough to support her, and waiting on her whenever her highness so did please. The perks were non-existent, he wasn't even deemed worthy enough to be mentioned in the will she'd had written up over a year ago. She planned for him to be her money source and little else. 

The woman was delusional enough to believe he would. It seemed to be a trait that was popular in his family's genes. He certainly knew it well enough. 

"Well, I'm sure you'll need someone to help handle all the ins and outs of the will." As transparent as a whore's lingerie. "My lawyer ..." 

"I'd rather get my own one, Aunt." Surprise, surprise, Auntie didn't seem to like *that* suggestion one bit. Already thin lips persed together in barely surpressed anger, and for a moment, it looked like she was going to forgo the Wood facade and let rip with her anger. But it was controlled, and she simply nodded curtly. 

"You're choice, Oliver - once you start thinking like an adult, send me an owl." Turning on her heels, she stormed out of the room and into the living room, just beyond. 

"She seemed ... well ..." Percy, at a loss for words. He'd have to invite him around when Aunt Linda was here more often. 

"Oh, it gets better." And it was sure to. He could already here a multitude of voices rising from the living room, and he winced as he recognised certain ones. Lovely, they had all come around to give him a true reason to mourn. 

At least it would help him in his role as dutiful son. He was finding sorrow a hard emotion to muster even in its pretentious form, discovering that he could rise nothing above the numbness he felt towards the whole situation. It was with a start that he realised that Percy had placed a hand on his shoulder, a look of concern etched on the pale face. 

He responded with what should have been a reassuring smile. God knows that particular smile was one he had mastered many years ago. But it wavered slightly at the corners, and that was all it took for Percy to know the nature of it, doubted the strength it was *supposed* to portray. 

Damn him for knowing him so well. 

Before Percy could say anything - and the boy certainly was going to, Grand Pa walked in on them, an almost apologetic smile on his face. 

"The family is here to see you," he spoke up, gesturing aimlessly with one of the hands towards the living room. Here to see him. Right. They were here to fulfil the superficial duties a family member should, and tsk over whatever topic they had taken to complaining about this time. His father's will was a likely candidate, although it could be anything ranging from the trivial to the bizarre - perhaps the lilies were the wrong shade of white, or there was some disagreement about the seating. Except there wasn't any seating. It was a funeral, not a wedding. His father's funeral. Dead as a doornail. If a doornail could be dead - could you actually kill something that had never been alive in the first place? 

There we go. It was the perfect metaphor after all. 

"This isn't going to be pleasant." As if Percy couldn't have guessed that from the brief meeting with Aunt Linda. In response, Percy nodded stiffly, before gesturing to the door. 

"After you." 

***** 

He'd never noticed that, if you looked closely enough, you could see each of the individual threads in the thick, winter blanket Grand Ma had brought for the bed. Maybe it was merely because of the contrasting patches of light and shadow created by the dulled lamp that made each strand come to life, become individuals where previously they had merely been a solid block of blue. Now, now he could see their differences and their flaws - some of them were a shade too bright, while others were not as tightly woven as they should have been. The odd thread have even broken away from the tight bonds, and dared to venture out alone, away from the smothering threads that had housed it. 

"I'm sorry, Oliver." 

What a pointless attempt to break the silence that had fallen over them like an Arabian shroud the moment they had escaped away to their room. Words that were useless and pathetic, and flowing not from the lips of the people they should be from, but from someone who featured little - if at all, in the problem. 

Percy was sorry, what a load of rot. As if an apology from the stuck up Weasley meant anything in the context of things. 

More silence. It was almost sufficatingly thick, although he enjoyed it in a perverse way. Would have continued to enjoy it - and his rather companionship self-wallowing, if Percy hadn't suddenly gotten out of his own bed and almost hesitantly, yet with a determination that seemed to contradict that original analysis, came and rested on Oliver's. Long legs stretched out besides his, albeit Percy's were above the covers, and a blob of red hair brushed gently against his ear for a brief moment as Percy made himself comfortable on part of the overly long pillow that adorned the bed. 

Percy didn't say a word, simply gazed up at the low ceiling. 

Any other time, this would have been enough inspiration to jump the other boy's bones. But now, he simply wanted to shove Percy off and onto the floor. 

_There were two in the bed, and the little one said ..._

"There is something I don't understand," Percy finally spoke up slowly. Something? There was a whole host of things the prat didn't understand. Sleep seemed to be one of them. Mindless of his thoughts - or because of them, Percy continued in the same, slightly jilted tone. "How is it, that someone so amazing, came from a group of self centred, cold people?" 

Fuck. There was no other thought, nothing else that could match the primitive and obscene word in describing the moment. His eyes closed, and for a brief moment, he bit down onto his bottom lip. 

God damn it, he wasn't going to cry. He cried as often as Snape said a kind word to a Hufflepuff. He simply did. Not. Cry. 

"Well, you see Percy - it has a little something to do with the birds and the bees." His voice wasn't thick with emotion that refused to be surpressed. Of course it wasn't. 

"Birds, bees? Oliver, what are you talking about?" 

Oh lord. Curses for using a damn muggle term. With a groan, yet secretly glad for the change in topic, he began to explain what the term meant, tripping over his words as he did. He'd barely completed the first couple of sentences when a hardly contained snigger escaped Percy's lips. It took a moment to sink in, but when it did, Oliver ripped the pillow out from under them and smacked Percy over the head with it. The snigger turned into gwaffles, and then a muffled laugh. With a shove, he pushed Percy off the bed, and the lanky red head fell on his rump with a dull thud, still smirking away as though he wasn't Percy Weasley, but one of the Twins instead. 

"Well, you see, Percy ... there are birds ... and there are bees. And the bees, well they ... you know. Um. They have relationships, kind of. I mean, I don't know were exactly one takes a bee on a first date, maybe a nice lily or something. But then, lilies represent death, don't they? So I wouldn't really classify taking someone there as a way of making a good first impression. It would be like taking someone to a funeral home." Percy mocked, reciting almost word for word what had just been 'explained' to him. 

"Prat," came the playful reply. It was amazing how strange this felt, to see Percy laugh so easy, to be completely without his masks. To respond in kind. 

With a smile that spoke of smug satisfaction, Percy rose to his feet, and flopped back onto his own bed. The silence this time was one of easy companionship. In those few, precious moments, Percy had somehow managed to wash away the foulness of the evening, the hurt and anger that had no form of release. Somehow, Percy was bringing to life parts of him that he had never known existed, or, if he *had* known, had surpressed them because the inhibited his ability to play the game well. He wasn't supposed to feel, to love. He wasn't supposed to care, or desire. He never thought he would, he'd learned his moves so well over the years. 

"Thank you, Percy. And I'm sorry I called you stuck up and a prat." 

"That is all right, Oliver." 

Then: 

"When did you call me stuck up?" 

It was a smile that graced his lips as he drifted off to sleep. 

***** 

It should have been raining. Rain was a perquisite at funerals, a symbolic representation of sorrow and cleansing. It always helped especially at Wood funerals, as faces that would otherwise be dry in stoicness, were streaked with tears from the sky. 

Family members couldn't care less, but the sky at least mourned for the dead. 

But even the sky had forsaken his father, instead of an ice rain that battered the cemetery, it was a vicious wind, cold and impersonal in its randomness. It didn't care that a soul that had died years ago was being lowered into the earth, or of the indifference that most people felt towards that man. 

God, his family was twisted. 

It was the wind that whipped around him now, swirling around the base of his ink black robes, causing them to billow like storm clouds. Percy stood huddled beside him, his lanky frame not dealing well with the bitterness and edge that the wind held. He was not a winter child, Percy. His frame too small, no fat on that slim figure to keep him warm. Yet, Percy suffered on in silence, patiently waiting for the graticious ceremony to begin. 

A bright flash of light lit the air, and for a moment it seemed that the storm that had been threatening above was about to make its appearance felt after all. But it hadn't been lightning that had lit the sky momentarily in brilliance, but the flash of a camera. It seemed that his father's death had been enough to attract the media hounds after all, half a dozen had come to 'show their respect' to the old Quidditch player, all dressed in their own muted death robes. 

He wanted to shout at them to leave, to drive them away from what should have been a private mourning session. Yet, the anger was based on superficiality. After all, his own family were not here to mourn the dead man, to offer support. None of them could care less. It would be hypocritical to ask the journalists to leave, while his family remained. 

Besides, his father would have wanted it like this. Reporters singing his tragedy as though it was some overdone Opera, a grieving respect for one of the 'Greats'. 

Oh yes. Father would have wanted it exactly like this. He would gain his blessed immortality only after his death. 

Like a swarm of locusts, the 20 or so Woods who had turned up moved in on the casket, the odd attempt at a sob pathetically stabbing the air. Any words were quickly whisked away by the wind, and he spared a moment to silently thank it. Being deprived of speeches made in falseness and tainted by the knowledge that the reporters would make notes of their 'sorrow laced words', was not something that troubled him. 

One by one, they filed past the coffin, which had momentarily been left open so that everyone could say their final goodbyes. There had been no wake, no ceremony that had taken place before hand, this would be the first time he had seen his father in months. 

Bravado faltered, before disappearing completely, as he walked up to the coffin, his body rebelling with each step. Eyes that were averted first to the textured oak coffin, then the lily white satin that lined the interior, eventually forced themselves up to the face of a man that as a child he had lived with, and who provided a house for him to stay in during the Hogswarts holidays, yet, a man who he had never known. 

Glancing at the stilled and expressionless face, he felt his knees buckle under him, and a sob that had no place in this convoluted circus escaped his lips. Just as he felt his legs were going to give out completely under him, a deceptively strong arm snaked around his waist. Later, he would reflect on what the rest of the family must have been thinking, when Percy had drawn him close, practically snuggling against each other as though they were lovers. But when it happened, he simply accepted the comfort Percy was providing beside him, too lost in his thoughts to care about the typical reactions. 

_Why? Why couldn't you have loved me? I would have done anything to just hear those words! You were all I had - and I was all *you* had, Father! _

He wasn't Adrian. Would never be Adrian. But Adrian was all his father had ever wanted, not the poor substitute of a son that he had been left with. 

_I never loved you, because you never gave me one damn reason to. But there was nothing I wanted more, to be able to love you, to be *allowed* to love you. But love is a weakness, isn't it, Father? A weakness that one couldn't even experience around family._

He done everything so perfectly, he'd played the game just how his father had directed, achieved all the goals that he was supposed to have reached. But what did winning mean, if it didn't bring the reward it was supposed to? he didn't care for the accolades, the reputation, the talent. He was supposed to have earned his father's *love*, his acceptance and his desire to spend time with his son outside the cursed Quidditch that had dictated each moment of his life, become his life. Father and son had become consumed by the game, and now that his father was no longer here, Oliver didn't know what he was supposed to do, how to play alone. 

His father had always been in complete control of his life, without that controlling force, he was lost in world that he had always spurned, desperately trying to hold onto the comfort of past routine. 

How could he continue playing the game if he'd forgotten the rules? How could he keep up the facade, when it was crumbling before his very eyes? 

Everything he knew, everything he *was*, was lying dead in that coffin with his father. 

He didn't notice when Percy steered him away from the coffin, didn't hear the clang of finality that vibrated softly through the wind when the lid was closed. A haze had settled over the cemetery - or was that just his mind? He couldn't seem to breathe, was being smothered by ghosts and emotions and this damn fog ... 

"I was 3." 

The soft voice of Percy somehow managed to pierce through his thoughts, dragging him back to the twisted reality. Straining, he could almost hear the words being spoken by the priest, but they had been dulled by the thrashing wind, and the words came across as indistinguishable. 

"My Father, he led a battle against a group of Death Eaters commanded by Lucius Malfoy. Lucius was humiliated, most of his troops were captured, although he himself managed to escape. He swore revenge on my father." 

Now one of the 'mourning' relatives had come forth to speak lies about how wonderful his father had been, and how he would be missed by all. He didn't need to hear the words, their predictability was more than enough. He clung instead to the soft voice beside him, grounding himself in those words as the world seemed to swirl uncontrollably around him. 

"Lucius has never been one with morals, certainly not during war. My Father was right to predict that Lucius would go after my family in an attempt to get to him, he was untouchable behind the Ministry walls, and Charlie and Bill were safe at Hogwarts. It was the rest of us who were at the most risk, and it was us that Lucius targeted." Percy remained staring straight ahead, eyes locked on the ceremony, but mind obviously elsewhere. "For three years, we knew nothing but fear, or my mother and I, at least. The twins were far too young, and Ron was barely a year old when the war ended. You can't even begin to imagine what it was like, living with that constant terror that being hunted like some animal brought. There were so many rules, so many things you just simply could not do. Every little mistake had potentially fatal repercussions, so you had to force yourself not to make them. There were times when you were too frightened to even breathe, terrified that a Death Eater might somehow manage to hear you." 

It was almost like a revolving platform. First one relative, then the next. He didn't know why they bothered, their words were all the same. 

"In those three years, we never stayed at one house for more than a couple of months, it was too dangerous - there were spies right through the entire hierarchy of the Ministry. No-one knew who to trust, and often it was those few that were entrusted who ultimately became the betrayers." A pause. "I think, I think saw my Father all of 6 or 7 times, during the war. It was too dangerous for him to visit the safe houses very often, and he became this likeable enough person I saw a couple of times a year. We, we never bonded. Not the way he did with all the others. We barely knew each other until I was nearly 6." 

He was beginning to tremble. It was just the wind, only the cold tendrils of the wind that were causing him to shudder so. Nothing else. 

"I would get amazingly jealous, when I was younger. I wanted so much to have the relationship that the others had with him, but I didn't know how, never fit in enough. I've always been Percy, the Weasley who was always different. Did you know, I thought my childhood was normal?" The change of direction back to the original topic came out of almost thin air. "That all the other children never saw more than the same 4 or so people during the entire course of the war, that they couldn't interact or play with anyone other than their own siblings. That they were as terrified and scared as I was. And lonely, always lonely. They were all supposed to be like me. But after the war, I found they weren't - that most of them had lived lives that were practically normal. I didn't know how to interact with any of them - when had I ever learned social skills? There was never any need for them when you only ever saw the same people day in, day out. So, instead of finally mingling after the hardship of the war, it just became a different kind of loneliness. Alienation came not from fear of being hunted down, but my own inability to simply be normal. I didn't know how to be." 

This time, nothing could stop the sobs, or the way his body began to shake uncontrollably, no longer mere tremors. Wordlessly, Percy pulled him into a tight hug, holding him as the tears flowed. He was falling, falling hard and fast, careening out of control. He choked harshly through the sobs, clinging to the slender boy in a hold that must have been painful. He was being weak, letting his emotions come into play in a way his father had always scorned. But he couldn't stop, couldn't bottle back up all the emotions that had been threatening to empty themselves for years, but had always been denied that opportunity. 

But now, the tears came freely. 

He wasn't aware when the actual funeral finished, barely noticed when Percy pulled away slightly, and spoke soft words to someone just out of his eyesight. Oliver didn't care who it was, or what Percy was saying. Everything seemed muted and slurred, almost as though he was suffering a concussion after a particularly hard fall in a Quidditch match. 

Finally however, Percy loosened the embrace, putting a slight distance between them even while those freckled arms remained loosely around his waist. Mercifully, the tears had dried up like an overtaxed well in the middle of a heat wave, and the fog that he had thought was sure to permanently stain his thoughts, was beginning to lift. 

"Feeling a bit better?" Percy asked, almost hesitantly. What was the right question to ask at the time like this, the right words to say? How did you cope with a friend breaking down in your arms, when he had never shown anywhere near that amount of emotion in the past? 

He pulled away from Percy's comforting arms, noting how the boy stiffened slightly at the rejection. He needed to regain some kind of control, some form of normality. Percy was providing neither, just confusing things more than they needed to be. Like he always did. 

"I'm fine, Percy." There, not even a tremor in his voice. A petty victory, but one neither less. 

"Of course," Percy replied formally, straightening his glasses. 

Everything was becoming too complicated, he needed to regain focus. Needed to go back to playing the game, sticking to the rules. He didn't want to deal with this. 

"I think we should catch the train back to Hogwarts this afternoon, instead of waiting around for the evening train. If we hurry, we could be back in time for Quidditch practice." Quidditch was safe. Quidditch was unemotional and ... 

"Quidditch." He spun around as the word escaped from Percy's lips in a growl. Brown eyes that had earlier reflected concern, were now instead shooting daggers of dangerous proportions. "The world does not revolve around Quidditch, Oliver - I think it's about time someone informed you of that." 

"Like you are one to talk, Ministry boy," Oliver spat back, daring Percy to continue. He did *not* want to deal with this. Not now, not ever. "You would sell your soul to get into the Ministry." 

"And you've already sold yours." Percy retorted, red anger staining the tips of his ears. "You care more about a stupid game than your own father." 

"He cared more about the game than me, why should I be any different to him!?" The words came fast and furious, and with no control or restraint at all. 

"Because you are better than him, damn it Oliver!" Percy practically yelled back, frustration mixing in with the anger. 

"You don't understand, could never understand." Scorn. Percy snorted in reply. 

"*I* understand Oliver. Of course I do. I understand that you're too scared to allow yourself to be human, too scared to have your own dreams and goals." 

"I have goals!" Came the angry reply. "Quidditch -" 

"Your father's dreams, Oliver, not yours! He has you so wrapped around his own ideals and dead hopes that even in death, you can't separate yourself from him! You don't know how to live outside of them!" 

"And neither do you!" How dare Percy try and take the moral high ground. Percy had always been just as bad as he was. "What life do you have outside of your 'dreams' Percy? You've turned your desire to work in the Ministry into your whole life - you don't exist outside of your goal." 

"Maybe, maybe I don't want to do it anymore!" And this time Percy was yelling. "Maybe I don't want to keep playing this damned game, where we all have roles that we must play, and heaven forbid if we just once don't act like some 2D character from a movie!" Desperation clouded those eyes now, and they seemed to be begging him to understand. "Maybe I don't want to be 'Perfect Percy' anymore, maybe I want to be allowed to have emotions, allowed to feel hurt or worried, confused or ... or ... or whatever!" Percy threw his arms up in the air in frustration. "I want to be *me*, just plain old Percy. And you know what, Oliver? I don't even know who he *is*. Percy has been so far buried underneath all the artificial layers that I've built up, sacrificed in the name of 'success' and 'achievement'," he spat the two words out, as though they were something to be despised, not craved. "I don't even know if he still even exists, or ... or, even if people will like him if he does." Strands of rich, ruby red hair whipped violently across Percy's face, the wind powerful in its force. Emotions paraded over the pale face: anger, resentment, fear, self loathing. Percy was hurting, desperately seeking reassurance from the one person who couldn't provide him with it. 

"He is there, Percy," Oliver replied softly, barely loud enough to be heard over the howling wind. "And I wish you knew him as well as I did, because any doubts you may have of him would all disappear in an instant." 

Then again, perhaps he could. 

Head bowed, Percy made no indication that he had heard the words that had taken a whole lot of bravery Oliver didn't even know he had to share, and he wondered if Percy had any idea that he'd practically laid his heart down on the line in those few phrases. 

"And what of the Oliver who exists behind all his walls, the Oliver who would like to think he isn't as mortal as the rest of us, because he is afraid that he is?" 

He closed his eyes. Damn it. He didn't want to go there. 

"He doesn't exist Percy. He is not like you, he's empty and hollow inside. Every now and then, he likes to pretend he is more than some lifeless mannequin, but it is a pretence that never lasts for long - can't last for long. There are always more important things do." 

"Quidditch." It had come out harshly when Percy had spoken the word mere moments before, this time it was so soft, that it could barely be heard over the wind. 

"Quidditch," he echoed. Nothing was supposed to exist outside of Quidditch. 

"Then you've failed." Bold brown eyes steadily held his own. "Because Oliver, your world may revolve around Quidditch, but that is only because you are forcing it to. You can deny that you don't care about anything else, but I think you know as well as I do that that is nothing more than a final lie your father has gifted you with. You said, said that you knew of a Percy that I have trouble believing even exists," Percy faltered for the moment, as though he still had trouble believing such a thing. "Well, I know an Oliver that *you* know, even if it is only in half whispered moments. He is kind, and smart - at times over confident, but that is often because he has a reason to be," a small smile played at the corner of Percy's lips. "He's been my friend, even though I'm geeky and nerdy and all those other names gifted to the academically inclined, for seven years. He knows me, even when I don't know myself, and I know him, even when he'd like to deny he exists in the first place. He's wonderful and supportive, even though he thinks he lives in this bubble that deflects all emotions off of him." 

"He sounds like a nice guy. You seem to know him well." Or not at all. 

"Too well." It was said almost painfully, and Percy's eyes seemed to be laced with a sorrow that could have crushed the most hardened of hearts. "In fact, I think I've fallen in love with him." 

No. NO. 

"Perce, you don't know what you are saying." He couldn't. Simply couldn't. There was no way that the brilliant, strangely adorable Percy could give a rats toss about him. Not Percy. Yet, he found himself unable to deny the hope that was surging through the disbelief, the longing that was battling with the all too common fear. And as he held Percy's wavering gaze, he realised that if there was one thing Percy was certain of, it was this. 

Insane. The red head was completely and utterly insane. 

But the conviction that he had seen in Percy's eyes mustn't have been reflected in his own. Perhaps they were clouded in doubt, or maybe it was simply that he had learned long ago to surpress any visual display of emotion. Either way, Percy dropped his head in a move of defeatist escapism, stilted apologies falling from his lips. 

"Listen Oliver, I shouldn't have ... my timing couldn't have been worse ... I didn't mean, I mean I *did* mean it, but I ..." 

Oliver hadn't made a single decision for himself in his entire life. Not really. Oh, you could say he chose between pancakes and sausages each day for breakfast, or whether to wear jeans or trousers underneath his robes, but they weren't decisions of any importance. 

"I ... I, I've never felt this ... never *meant* to feel like this. Not about anyone, too time consuming, too unPercy." 

No. Any decision that would have the slightest impact had been made by his father. Those decisions had often been made years before they'd ever come into play, carefully crafted around his father's plans. He'd never once complained about them, never even thought to rebel. 

Why would he? They had always been aiming for the same goal, perfection on the Quidditch field. Father had always known best. 

"And it was certainly unpolite of me to bring such a ... thing ... up now. Or ever. It was stupid of me, and I should apologise. Am apologising. I think." 

But Father was dead, and now he had to decide whether or not to share the coffin with the cold man who had never cared for him beyond his ability to fly a broomstick. For living his father's dream wasn't really living at all. But, it was safe. It promised him a life that would be free of the complications that discovering his own dreams would, gave him a world where he could live blissfully in his own self denial. 

Percy, Percy was a mass of complications. A tumbling mound of emotions that no-one else was allowed to see. Percy was truth, and truth was something that he feared more than anything else. 

It should have been a hard decision to make. He should have weighed the possibilities, then followed his head, as he had always done. He should have quietly told Percy that while he cared for him as a friend, he couldn't return the deeper feelings the other boy had for him. He should have then distanced himself from Percy, become no more than the mere acquaintance he should have been from the start. He should have played the game. 

That was what he should have done. 

Instead, he closed the small distance Percy had put between them during his incessant babbling, and pulled the slighter boy into his arms. Wide eyes glanced up at him, surprise shining there as Percy was cut off mid-ramble. A protest seemed poised on Percy's lips, but the words never had a chance to escape as Oliver bent down and claimed those lips as his own. Soft, gentle lips that were prone to be bitten down on in moments of uncertainty. Lips that parted almost instantly beneath his own, as slender arms snaked around his shoulders, drawing him in closer. 

Kissing Percy was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. Innocent and warm, completely undiluted of anything remotely resembling motive or deception. It felt real. And right. Oh so very right. 

In fact, if breathing wasn't a necessity of life, he could have stayed like that forever. As luck may have it, however, breathing was a requirement. With a small groan, he ended the kiss, holding Percy in strong arms as the other boy seemed to waver slightly after the loss of contact. 

"You're going to freeze to death if we stay out here much longer." How had he not noticed how much time had passed, or the slight tremors that rippled through Percy's body? For a moment, Percy looked taken back by the rather out of place question, before smiling almost wryly. It seemed that even Percy hadn't been aware of the cold over the past few minutes. Slipping an arm tightly around Percy's waist, he guided him towards the gates of the cemetery, glancing briefly over at his father's tombstone as he did so. 

_End game, Father. I can't live your life for you any longer, I've got to start living my own. I hope you find some peace, I think I've found mine. _

"I love you Percy," he whispered into Percy's ear, feeling rather than seeing the smile that lurked on those lips in response. "I don't think that, after this, that there isn't anything I couldn't do for you." That comment made Percy freeze in his tracks, and turn to him with a decidedly mischievous smile on his face. 

"You do mean that, don't you Oliver?" 

Percy was up to something. Something that couldn't be good. 

"Yes, Perce. Please say you are not going to make me regret saying it." The answering smirk made him want to bury his face in his hands. Please, please don't let it be something too humiliating. 

***** 

"Walk onnnnn, walk onnnnn, wal-with, with hope! In your heart, and you will always w-walk, a~lone!" Off key and making up the words as he went, Percy hollered the words out, mercifully being drowned out by the thousands of other football fans. Gone were the cluttered black robes, replaced instead by a brilliant red shirt that rivalled Percy's hair for brightness, as well as a matching scarf that was wrapped snugly around his neck, protecting Percy from the bitter coldness in the unlikely possibility that the crush of people around him wasn't. 

Mad. Percy had gone stark, raving mad. Who would have thought that Percy of all people would miss a day of school for no other reason than to watch Liverpool play football? But as Oliver rose to his feet to join his, his lover? No, they hadn't yet reached that stage, not on a physical level. Partner? It sounded awfully formal, especially for what really was the 'honeymoon' period of their relationship. What was Percy, other than his entire heart and soul? One didn't need words when they had that, perhaps. 

Rising to his feet, he shot Percy a grin, letting the wave of contentment wash over him as he joined in for the last line, his voice mingling in with the rest of the crowds as his hand sought out Percy's, their fingers interlocking tightly. He'd never been this blissfully happy. 

"You'll ne~ever walk, alone." 

***** 

**Fini**

_Quick author's notes: 'two up, two down' is English slang for a type of old English house, where there were two rooms on the bottom floor, and two rooms up on the second floor. "Walk On", which Percy so lovingly butchered, is the anthem of the Liverpool football team. I have fond memories of watching games on T.V or having my father describe to me, how fans would sing the song before each game. Every time I see it, it still leaves me in awe. Amazingly powerful. _

***** 

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   [1]: http://www.fanfiction.net/index.fic?action=story-read&storyid=309520



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